84 oml my sweet peter and his tender lil heart

rileywrites-parker:

Prompt 84: “Why are you so nice to me”

This one got kind of weird on me, sorry.

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You’d seen him, had always; eyes drawn to the way his
shoulders hunched in on themselves, how collar bones pulled towards his chest
when tea stained eyes hidden beneath too-big glasses looked a little more like coffee grounds and were a few
too many years away from where they sat in between the sometimes bruised and
bloodied almost-straight nose; beneath freckles that seemed to flourish every
summer and fade as the sky darkened and grew cold like the skin under weary
eyelashes.

His eyes were always a question when you asked.

“How are you today, Peter?”

“Do you need a lab partner, Peter?”

You’d seen him, had always, when you’d offered to share your
textbook when he’d forgotten his again, and your fingers had brushed as you’d fumbled to turn
pages; hearts pounding loudly the same way corners of lips beat at cheeks as they fought to keep
from smiling; warmth tickling at throats that were too tight and nervous
to get a word out between quiet “sorrys” and silent shared ‘this.’

His eyes were always a question when you said.

“You’re so smart, Peter.”

“I really like your laugh, Peter.”

You’d seen him, had always, when his hunched shoulders
suddenly weren’t so skinny and sad in the way they hovered over cliff-bottom
ribs and suddenly the crashing waves in his heart weren’t so plain, so obvious,
in the storm of his pupils. When he’d finally stopped flinching at every word
that bounced off his back to rattle in his ears, and you’d stopped falling to
the floor to help him pick up his spilled books while not-so-quietly denouncing
his bullies, because he’d suddenly started to look a little less bendable, less
like a blurred figure and a little more like a streetlight playing tricks on the eyes on a foggy day.

His eyes were always a question anytime you touched.

“I like the way your hands feel.”

“Hugging you is the best part of my day.”

You’d seen him, had always, when  the lines of him had been obvious underneath
that suit, the mask he’d been wearing  long before that spider had found him; years
of studying and answering gently asked questions giving him away before he’d
even thought to do it himself. When red fingers had tugged you into a red and
blue chest away from an angry heart, that ‘this’
had rung out through your veins, vibrating, and resounding like the church bells
he’d once spoke of on that night when you’d danced into adulthood wrapped in
bare arms instead of scratchy fabric.

His eyes had been an answer when that salty question spilled
from blurred eyes into his mouth.

“Why were you always so nice to me?”

You’d seen for him, had always, when he’d forgotten how,
when he’d refused to. Because seeing wasn’t always believing, and on most nights, you could hardly
believe that he was real, when he let you count out his freckles,
as fingertips danced across fine hairs and laughed at all of those whispered “sorrys.”

“Because, you’re good,
Peter,” and the caress of his name at your lips was a promise to make him a
believer, as he had of you a long time ago, with quiet smiles, loud laughs,
kind eyes, a gentle voice, and a brave heart.